He did know that they were his only hope in overcoming the new crisis that faced him.
The familiar Salka lair lay within the high bank of a hummock at the last lake’s far end, concealed by a growth of scraggly willows. The monsters who dwelt there had never invited him into their abode. Perhaps the entrance was underwater, as in a beaver’s den. He guided the skiff to a point some five or six ells away, where the still, black water was very deep, and paused to listen. The only sound was a faint hiss of wind in the dead rushes.
Using the Salka language, he bespoke them.
“Great Ones of the Land and Water! It is I, Beynor, your friend. If this is a propitious time, I beseech you to please emerge and give me your excellent advice, for I am sore troubled.”
He waited for what seemed an interminable time. It was always like that. Sometimes, especially during the past three years, after he’d empowered Weathermaker, the monsters had declined to meet him—not saying a word, simply refusing to come out.
“Please don’t deny me today! I have gifts…”
Ha!
First, a few bubbles, then a roiling of the water, and finally an upsurge and a fountaining splash that would have drenched him had he not worn the protective oilskins. The huge sleek form with the burning eyes opened his snaggle-toothed maw and uttered a conversational roar. He wore a sigil the size of a razor clam on a woven strand hung about his thick neck.
Beynor smiled and held out two of the leather bags. “Arowann, my old friend! Thank you for coming.”
Boneless arms with tentacular fingers clasped the gifts. The monster’s voice, although harsh and overloud to human ears, was amiable enough. “What have you brought us?”
“Beads of finest amber in many colors, pierced and ready to be strung.” The king lifted the third bag. “And ivory love-rings, so that your sweetings may long delight in your attentions.”
“Good.” The Salka dropped the bags of amber into the water, where they were doubtless retrieved by one of his fellows, and did the same with the ivory. Then he sank neck-deep, blinked, and said, “Let me know your trouble, Beynor.”
“Arowann, recently I’ve suffered agonizing dreams of the Lights. They seem to feed on my pain and demand more and more of it as I use my one Great Stone.”
The monster considered the matter gravely for some minutes. “Do you use the Weathermaker sigil often?”
“Yes,” Beynor admitted. “To aid my human allies in Didion, who are waging war on Cathra.”
“Ah… a war. And have you also used the Great Stone in other ways?”
Beynor’s reply was defiant. “I used it to make a triple rainbow at my coronation. It was necessary to impress the Didionite royal family with my abilities. To gain their respect.”
“And how else?”
He flushed and looked away from the blazing red-gold eyes. “To create a great thunderbolt. It demolished the tower where my treacherous sister Ullanoth lived. But she was not inside, as I’d thought.”
“In your dreams, did the Lights approve your actions?”
“It’s hard to remember,” the boy-king admitted nervously. “I think—I think they were scornful and laughed at me! But why should that be? Aren’t the stones mine to do with as I like?”
The Salka’s booming voice was caustic. “Only a fool, or a child, would ask such a question. The Great Stones extract enormous power from the Coldlight Army, and the conjurer must pay their price. If the Lights despise the use to which their power is put, or if they decide that the sorcerer is using the power frivolously, they may exact penalties.”
“Worse than the pain-debt?”
“Much worse.” Arowann shook his enormous crested head. “Beynor, my young friend, you said you came for advice. Here it is: leave off using the sigils vaingloriously. Approach the Lights in the way Rothbannon did—as a meek pupil—and do it very slowly.”
“But I’ve made promises to my allies! And my sister will find a way to steal my kingdom if I don’t destroy her. Is there no way I can make the Lights understand?”
“No,” said Arowann. “There is no way any of us mortal beings can sway them. The Coldlight Army does as it pleases, and we deal with them circumspectly, and always at our peril. Farewell.” He sank out of sight.
Beynor stared at the place in the water where the monster had been, wishing his advice had been different. Then he took the tiller and steered the boat back in the direction it had come. On his right index finger, the glow of the knobby moonstone ring was lost in the Boreal sunshine.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Red Ansel had easily beclouded the minds of two Cathran grain-ship captains, making each think that the other one had taken charge of him. By the time the corn fleet reached Tarn and the truth was discovered, neither man wanted to admit being duped. So the shaman’s continuing presence in Cala remained undiscovered.
He modified his appearance somewhat and took a room in a sailors’ lodging above a cookshop on the waterfront, where he pretended to convalesce from recurrent ague, a common affliction of seafarers visiting southern Continental ports. His dinghy, disguised with a new sail and a repainted hull, was tied up at a nearby slip. On moonless nights when the landlord and his wife were too busy with trade to notice his absence, he prowled the bay, committing to memory its tidal vagaries and hazards to navigation, while he easily scried the maneuvers of the Cathran fleet and judged the competence of the different squadron leaders.
On the day that Didion’s navy emerged from the fog and became visible to his powerful oversight from Cathra, Ansel was ashore. Events were fast coming to a head, and his great premonitory talent warned him to remain alert. He had spent long hours eavesdropping windspoken orders that had been flying between Cala Palace and the patrolling vessels like frantic clouds of bats. Ever since Ullanoth’s message about the Didionite armada had been received, Cathra’s leading naval captains and Lord Admiral Copperstrand had been arguing about what to do.
Coming himself from a race of expert fighting seamen, Ansel could scarcely believe what happened next. Cutting off all debate, Copperstrand divided his strung-out force of fifty-two warships into two equal groups. The first, under the command of Vice Admiral Woodvale, headed for western Cala Bay off Castle Defiant to safeguard the capital from attack from the Continent. The other half of the fleet, led by the Lord Admiral himself, began to gather below the Vigilant Isles some two hundred leagues to the southeast, evidently intending to engage the oncoming force of Crown Prince Honigalus.
Oh, badly done! the shaman said to himself. Unless the Tarnian mercenaries arrived to save the day, Copperstrand had just ensured that one half of his fleet would be outnumbered by Didion, while the other half faced an uncertain (but probably large) number of corsairs sailing up from Stippen and Foraile.
Red Ansel debated with himself whether to advise Vra-Sulkorig or the Prince Heritor’s brother about Copperstrand’s dubious action. But he feared that the alchymists would never understand the blunder; they might even think dividing the fleet was logical. And the only person having the knowledge and authority to countermand the Lord Admiral’s decision was King Olmigon, who was resting after his heart spasm the previous evening, tended ably enough by his alchymists but in no condition to issue orders.
In the end, the shaman decided that all he could do was wait.
He left his room and went to the Chandlers Market, intending to buy neat’s-foot oil to dress his boots, as well as to sample the mood of Cala’s waterfront denizens as the nation braced for war. He was surprised to discover that commerce seemed to be proceeding at its normal autumnal pace, with no one particularly worried about possible threats from Didion. The shoemaker who sold him the oil opined that Cathra’s magificent warships were more than a match for the starving barbarians. Venders who peddled roasted chestnuts, sweet apples, and pies to eat out of hand confessed that nobody seemed to be buying up food to hoard against a seige. Others that Ansel gossiped with seemed to believe that the so-called Didionite threa
t was only propaganda instigated by Prince Heritor Conrig, with the motive of raising taxes for his Sovereignty scheme once he succeeded to the throne. As for the Continentals, everyone knew they were too lazy to disturb the status quo—especially in an alliance with those pathetic losers from Didion.
It all made perfect sense, Ansel realized, unless you knew the truth. But when had the common people ever been privy to the dark secrets of the state?
With a spicy venison pie in his scrip for supper, and munching on hot nuts, he was about to leave the market and go down to his boat when he spotted a familiar face critically surveying a tray of late-season table grapes. Rusgann Moorcock, the loyal maidservant of Princess Maudrayne, was perhaps in search of a treat for her ailing mistress. Ansel felt a guilty start as he realized he had neglected to windwatch the princess for the past several days, having been distracted by Conrig’s invasion and the events taking place at sea.
He approached the strapping, broad-featured woman and addressed her politely. “Goodwife Rusgann? Perhaps you remember me. I’m Ansel Pikan, the shaman, a friend of Princess Maudrayne. May I inquire about Her Grace’s health these days?”
The maid turned slowly, fixing him with a sharp look. “You were supposed to’ve been shipped back to Tarn.”
He smiled. “But as you see, I’m still here. I knew what had been done to the princess, poor soul. And while I could not alleviate her condition, neither could I abandon her. I’ve remained in Cala hoping so be of help to her when the time was ripe.”
Rusgann appeared to be thinking deeply. After a moment, she beckoned. “Come take a sup of ale with me. I’ve something to tell you.”
Maudrayne’s alchymical confinement was like a life lived underwater, a bright, viscous world where movement was slowed and senses lacked their normal acuity, where shapes and colors were blurred, sounds were distorted and indistinct, and her lips formed words that never quite translated into speech.
The princess had been at peace, even happy in that state of easy lassitude. She did as she was told when she was told, obeying Lady Sovanna or Vra-Sulkorig like a puppet. Her mind was intact except for its total lack of volition. Most of the time she sat motionless by the fire or at the large window in the room she called her studium, where the two younger ladies-in-waiting would read aloud, or make music, or simply chatter to one another as they played games or embroidered, while paying no more attention to their helpless mistress than to a piece of furniture.
She was never left alone, except after they put her to bed.
While she slept, she soared amidst memories of her happy childhood— sailing her little boat on a summer sea dotted with bergy bits, flying on skis down the frozen Donor River, pulled by a horse shod with spiked iron, gathering cloud-berries on a hillside bright with the luscious pink flowers of dwarf willowherb, sitting by the roaring hearth on blizzard nights with her brothers, listening to Eldmama’s tales of ancient heroes battling demons…
But the calm strangeness was ebbing away now, leaving unwelcome reality in its wake.
Last night, the dreams of her youth had been fragmented by intermittent hints of dread, of another life tainted by sorrow and rage that awaited her beyond the comfort of sleep. This morning, when she woke and the maids came to dress her in an overly ornate gown chosen by Lady Sovanna, she managed to utter a small sound of disapproval and attempted to push the garment away.
“Let’s have none of that, madam,” said the chief lady-in-waiting, gesturing briskly for the women to continue fastening her into the billowing garnet-colored silk. “Today the King’s Grace is coming to visit, and we can’t have him see you lolling about in a shift and wrapper like some invalid, with your hair undone and your face pale as a sheet.”
So they adorned and primped her and skillfully used cosmetics to give her complexion and lips a simulated bloom of health, and all the while she felt the drugged lethargy continue to fade. At breakfast, she ate without needing to be commanded. By mid-afternoon, with Rusgann hovering excitedly near her, pressing her to drink cup after cup of small beer to flush the remnants of the soporific physick from her body, she was returning to herself and could speak in a fashion that was nearly normal.
They put her in an armchair in the sitting room, lighting every candle because the day was overcast and dreary, and there she waited half-dozing until King Olmigon, borne in a litter and attended by his lords-in-waiting, entered the room.
Blinking uncertainly, with a tentative half-smile on her face, she rose and dipped a small curtsey to her father-in-law.
“Your Grace.”
The king uttered a cackle of feeble triumph. “So you are getting well, Maudie! I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.” He snapped at the footmen, ordering them to bring him close to her chair. “Now everyone get out! I’ll speak to the princess alone.”
Lady Sovanna opened her mouth as if to object, then shut it again, frowning. She herded courtiers and servants out of the sitting room and closed the door.
Olmigon leaned toward Maudrayne, extending a trembling hand. She took it, searching his ravaged face with bewilderment, seeing the dulled eyes more deeply sunken, the cracked bluish lips, the furrowed cheeks now tinged with the grey pallor of fast-approaching death.
She said, “I’m… recovering, sire. And you…”
He sighed. “It won’t be long, lass, but I’m not on my deathbed yet. Old Bazekoy will have to wait a bit. The doctors got all miffed when I insisted on coming to see you, but I had to make certain Sulkorig and Sovanna obeyed my command.” A spark of anger lit his eyes. “That they were no longer drugging you to make you docile.”
She looked away. “Is that what it was? I felt very strange, but there was no discomfort.”
“You know why Conrig had it done?”
“I… can’t remember.”
“Because you were angry at him and threatened to run away. We can’t have you doing that, Maudie. Not while Con’s fighting the war for Sovereignty. It would devastate him if you weren’t here when he returned victorious.”
“Ah.” But her air of puzzlement remained. Why had she been angry at Con? What had he done? Why—
Oh, God!
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she knew everything once more. A soft moan escaped inadvertently as she thought of the babe. Was it still safe within her womb, in spite of the poisons they’d given her? It was too new yet to make itself felt.
“Don’t worry about Conrig,” the king said, misunderstanding her sudden anxiety. “He’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, I’m afraid you must stay in your rooms. But if you would, I’d like you to visit with me every day. I’ve missed you.”
“Of course I’ll come,” she agreed. She fell silent, but her pensive frown betrayed the fact that she was consumed by thought. “Sire? May I ask a small favor of you?”
“Of course.”
So she did, and after a brief demurral during which she became more and more insistent, the king finally agreed. His smile was wry. “Now I’m certain you’re getting better. You have the strength to argue, and I’m too decrepit to stand up to you!”
They laughed together, and Olmigon bade her join him and the queen and little Prince Tancoron for an early supper. “Sir Hale Brackenfield will come to escort you around the fourth hour.”
“The Master-at-Arms?” She lifted a brow. “Am I in danger then?”
The king looked sheepish. “Certainly not. Just come along with him and we’ll have a nice meal. I’ll make a little music for us with my lute, and Prince Tanny will sing. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about Con’s doings in the north. The past few days I’ve been too… tired to deal with affairs of state.”
“I understand.” She had tended her dying mother, who had had the same aura of mortality about her as the end neared. But this failing old man still possessed a store of uncanny strength. The princess, deeply in touch with the arcane as were most of her people, wondered if Emperor Bazekoy could be responsible.
The king lay back on his
litter cushions and allowed his eyes to close. “Now call the others back, if you please. I need a nap.”
She rose and summoned the royal attendants, who entered along with Maudrayne’s own people in a bustling, solicitous horde. After Olmigon was taken away, the princess stood by the window for some minutes, looking out without saying a word. Her ladies-in-waiting and maids hovered, clearly at a loss how to react now that she seemed to have regained her wits. Many of them no doubt dreaded the reappearance of her famous temper.
Finally Maudrayne said, “You may all withdraw save Lady Sovanna and Rusgann.” When they were gone, she said to the maid, “I’ll have another cup of beer.” And to the noblewoman: “Please come into my studium.”
The two of them moved into the inner chamber. The princess left Sovanna standing, went to a press, took out a portfolio, placed it on a worktable, and began to leaf slowly through the pages, which held mounted specimens of dried flowering plants.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” she remarked. “Still very lifelike. I understand that certain of them were fumed by alchymists to prevent their fading. The Brothers of Zeth are so clever with their elixirs. So many mystical potions with so many wonderful uses!”
“Yes,” Sovanna said uncertainly.
“Since the king has told me I must temporarily remain in my rooms, I’ve decided to organize my botanical collection. Perhaps I’ll begin a small book about the wildflowers of Cathra.”
“A fine idea!” said the lady with forced heartiness. “The project will occupy your mind as you regain your usual good health. Just let me know how I may help.”
“Sovanna, I know I have you to thank for taking such excellent care of me during my late illness. You and Vra-Sulkorig. The King’s Grace explained it to me.”
The woman became very still. Only the tightening of her thin lips showed that she understood. Her small dark eyes glittered in the candlelight.